


Turning the Same Thing Over and Over

by popfly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, Minor Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Derek's memories are tainted by the deaths of his family, Stiles wants to help him make new ones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turning the Same Thing Over and Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [imprintofadream (imprint_of_a_doe)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/imprint_of_a_doe/gifts).



> I got the most interesting set of word prompts, and this is what happened after I read them. I hope it meshes with the idea behind the prompts. I wanted to work more of the "likes" in, but I'm so rusty when it comes to the explicit stuff!
> 
> Imprintofadream, I hope you enjoy this. Many thanks to my ever fabulous beta, who knows who she is (and hopefully also knows how much I love her).

Every summer the Hales had taken a trip to the coast.

Derek’s mom would pack up their station wagon, and he and Laura would ride in the backseat, homemade travel bingo cards clutched in their hands, shouting things out as they passed them.

“White horse,” Laura would call, pointing, and Derek would glower as she colored in the square.

Their aunt and uncles and cousins would follow in their van, and they all stayed in a big house where the kids shared two rooms in the attic, playing old board games under the skylight, dust motes swirling around them.

The house smelled old, like damp wood and the moss that grew near their home in Beacon Hills, and it creaked all the time, but Derek loved it. He loved climbing the ladder to the top bunk, he loved jostling for space in front of the sink when it was time for the kids to brush their teeth, and he loved the beach.

It wasn’t the nicest beach (Derek’s parents had taken them to Hawaii one year to visit a pack whose Alpha was a friend of Derek’s father, and those beaches had sand that was white and fine and spread out for miles) but it was all theirs, stretching all the way from their back door to the ocean, and Derek loved it.

When he was little he’d make sandcastles with old cups for molds, and tie Laura’s Barbie clothes to twigs for flags to stick on the battlements. His oldest cousin would help him dig a moat and fill it with seawater, and Derek would use GI Joes to defend the castle gates. Inevitably the castle would fall to a war waged by younger cousins and their careless feet and Derek would have to rebuild the next day.

As he got older he lost interest in the sand and took to the water like a fish, swimming out as far as he could with the tide sucking at his skin, until his mom would shout for him from the shore. The little ones could only paddle around in the shallows, water wings bobbing in the surf. Laura and the other girl cousins spread out on their towels, passing tanning lotion back and forth.

His dad would go out before dinner, as the tide was changing, and walk down past the dunes, farther than any of the kids could go alone, and he’d come back with pockets full of shells and sea glass, bits of green and blue that had been washed smooth by the waves. He’d empty them out on the dining room table and let the kids sort through them. Derek would run his fingers over each bit of sea glass, feeling for the ones that weren’t perfectly smooth, loving the contrast of rough and soft against his fingers. The best ones he’d cradle in his palms and then drop into a jar up in the attic room.

The last summer they went to the coast Derek was sixteen, and he spent his whole vacation in the attic room, curled up in the now-too-small top bunk, listening to music and scowling at the wall and generally being a moody teenager. He felt jittery, like he wanted to wolf out and run down the beach, crash through the forest at the top of the cliffs, hunt things. Something felt wrong about the summer, but his parents chalked it up to puberty and let him mope the vacation away.

The fire happened six months later.

Derek and Laura fled Beacon Hills, and Derek couldn’t stop thinking about the last night of their last family vacation, everyone gathered around a bonfire on the beach, roasting marshmallows and telling stories and laughing. Derek had wandered away, kicking rocks and glaring out at the blackness of the ocean, still feeling itchy in his skin.

He’d found a piece of sea glass that night, as big as the palm of his hand, still jagged enough to cut on one edge. His cousins had all outgrown the ritual of fighting each other over the shells and glass that Derek’s dad brought back from his walk each night, but Derek would sometimes creep down to the dining room in the middle of the night and take a few pieces for his jar. He kept it tucked away in his sock drawer in Beacon Hills, and when they got home the new piece went in as well, barely fitting through the mouth of the jar.

In the rush of New York, and then coming home and Laura being killed, Derek didn’t think about the jar at all. He thought about his family plenty, it was hard not to when he was curling up to sleep in a corner of a half-burnt room with no roof in his old house. But then it was mostly regret and sorrow, flashes of acrid smoke and screams that he hadn’t witnessed.

It was only after Peter was killed and Derek became Alpha, assembled his angsty teenage pack, that he started remembering good things.

*****

They’re in the middle of a training session, Scott sitting in and helping out, filling things in where a born werewolf can’t. Stiles sits next to him, laptop balanced on his knees, tracking Isaac with his eyes and typing into some spreadsheet that only he understands. Derek leans against the train car, taking in the whole scene, and feels something that might be contentment.

That’s the moment that he remembers the jar.

He straightens up so fast he feels his spine pop, and his betas come to a halt, three heads swiveling in his direction. Scott looks over, too (he may not be pack but he’s still a wolf), and Stiles is only a second behind.

“What’s going on? Is there someone here? Lurking danger?”

Derek shakes his head and relaxes, forcing his heartbeat to slow so his betas stand down. “No, nothing, sorry. I just remembered something. Scott, can you keep them going for a little longer?”

Scott nods, still looking wary, and motions for the others to continue what they were doing. Derek can feel Stiles’s eyes on him as he pulls his jacket on and palms his car keys, and he’s not surprised when Stiles follows him up onto the street.

“What’s going on? You look freaked.”

“I’m not. If I were freaked they would still be able to feel it.” Derek unlocks the Camaro and opens the door, and Stiles blocks him with a forearm.

“You may not be throwing off wolf alarms or whatever, but I know a ‘just saw a ghost’ face when I see one.”

Derek exhales through his nose. Stiles has become impervious to his glowering, so he’s been trying to use his words more, but it’s still difficult when he doesn’t always want to share. “I just remembered something that may be at the old house.”

Stiles wrinkles his nose. “Did you have a fireproof safe?”

“It’s a jar, glass. It could have survived. I need to find out.”

“What was in it?”

“Stiles.” Usually Derek can convey his extreme amounts of not wanting to talk about it with that tone of voice, but Stiles just props a hand on his hip and waits, and Derek sighs.

“It’s a collection, I guess, from when I was a kid.”

Stiles waves a hand in the air, and Derek wonders (not for the first time) when he let this person have so much control over him.

“Sea glass,” he grits out. “From family vacations to the coast. My dad used to pick it up on the beach.”

Stiles’s eyes go soft, and his hand slides from his hip. “Oh.”

Derek tilts his head in acknowledgement. Somewhere between their first kiss and the first time they’d fallen into bed together Stiles had gotten Derek to open up more about his childhood, but it still felt like having his claws pulled out with pliers.

“Sorry, yeah, go ahead.” Stiles scuffs the toe of his shoe in the gravel and scratches the back of his neck. “Do you want to be alone?”

Derek isn’t sure, but the idea of Stiles being there when he does (or doesn’t) unearth the jar doesn’t set his teeth on edge so he gets in the car and leans across to pop the passenger door open.

Stiles stays mostly quiet as Derek drives, tapping out what Derek assumes is a text to Scott, his knee jiggling. Derek reaches over and presses his palm to Stiles’s thigh, and Stiles goes completely still, his heart thumping.

“Sorry,” he says, curling his hand around Derek’s. “I’m not used to being this quiet.”

“I’m aware,” Derek says, squeezing the muscle in Stiles’s thigh a little, making him jump.

Derek parks but doesn’t get out of the car, and Stiles nudges his fingers under Derek’s palm, makes him flip his hand over so Stiles can lace their fingers together. “You haven’t been back here in a while.”

Derek shakes his head, exhaling shakily. Stiles taps their joined hands on his thigh twice and then lets go, opening his door and angling out of the car.

Derek trails him up the rickety front steps, and thinks again about calling the city, letting them finally tear the place down. It’s not like he could fix it up, there’s too much structural damage, but he thinks about the jar that may be rolling around in one of the half burnt, dusty rooms, and decides it can wait a little longer.

Stiles wanders through the downstairs rooms, Pumas scuffing through the ash, sneezing when a cloud of it billows up. Derek doesn’t know where to start looking; the jar had stayed in his sock drawer but the way parts of the house collapsed the thing could’ve rolled anywhere. He circles the first floor in the opposite direction of Stiles, sweeping his hands behind fallen beams and digging through piles of debris.

Stiles is still kicking around in what used to be the kitchen when Derek leaps up the staircase, and he starts in the front of the house where the damage isn’t as bad. The charred remains of furniture litter the two rooms, and Derek’s leaning to reach the corner behind a moldy mattress when he hits something with his knuckle that clinks and rolls away.

His throat clogs up and he wiggles frantically against the floor, trying to get his arm to stretch out a little further before he finally shoves the mattress so hard it goes flying across the room, cracking more of the broken window.

“Derek?” Stiles shouts up from the ground floor. Derek knows that Stiles won’t come up the stairs, is afraid they’ll collapse, and rightly so.

“I found it,” he shouts, his voice croaky from emotion or dust, he doesn’t know. He cradles the jar in his hands, so much smaller than he remembers it like things from childhood always are. The lid is dented and the glass is grimy, but Derek can see the blues and greens of the sea glass inside when he swipes at the jar with his sleeve.

Stiles is standing at the bottom of the staircase, his cheeks streaked with grime, when Derek emerges. He takes the jar when Derek offers it, and holds his sweatshirt sleeve over his hand to struggle with the lid. Derek lets him, sits on the porch steps and breathes fresh air while Stiles grunts and wrenches the lid until it comes off with a pop, showering his already dirty shoes with ash.

They shake the contents out onto the porch and sift through them, and Derek can feel a knot in his chest loosening up with each piece of sea glass he touches. He starts telling Stiles stories about those summers, about the skylights in the attic rooms and the old board games, about his cousin’s water wings, about the bunk beds and the dunes and the bonfires. Stiles listens quietly, refilling the jar as Derek talks, and when Derek tells him about the last summer Stiles wraps a hand around the back of Derek’s neck and pulls him forward until his nose is pressed to Stiles’s neck, smelling ash and the warm musk of Stiles’s skin.

*****

A few weeks later Stiles shows up at Derek’s door with his hands cupped behind his back.

“I brought you something,” he says, and limps into the room.

“You’re hurt,” Derek says, hands reaching out to steady Stiles, scenting the air around him to see how bad it is.

“It’s just a sprain, it’s my ankle. I stepped down wrong on a piece of driftwood and rolled it.” Derek wraps his hands around Stiles’s biceps, and feels the muscles shift under his fingers.

“Driftwood?”

Stiles’s eyes slide away, and Derek can smell it then, the faint hint of saltwater that lingers on Stiles’s skin, like he’d been standing in the spray of an ocean wave. Derek’s eyes go wide, and he tugs on Stiles’s arms until his hands come unclasped and he brings them around to his front.

“I went out to the coast. I doubt it was your beach, and it took me a few hours to unearth some, but,” Stiles trails off, and Derek can hear his pulse jump. “Well, here.”

He holds up his cupped palms between them, and in them sits a perfectly smooth piece of bottle green sea glass.

“Hey, hey,” Stiles says, and Derek can feel him pulling back slightly. He realizes he’s been tightening his hands around Stiles’s arms and lets go, flexing his fingers against his sides.

“You should sit, your ankle,” Derek says, but Stiles waves him off, closing his other hand around the glass.

“Should I not have gone? I don’t want to intrude on your family memories, I just thought that maybe you could restart your collection, make it a happy thing again. I thought maybe we could all - the pack, your new family - maybe we could all go to the coast. Are you mad?”

Derek’s hand shoots out, lightning quick, and he circles Stiles’s wrist with his fingers. “No, god, of course not. I’m just,” Derek shakes his head, exhales. “Here, let me see it.”

Stiles uncurls his fingers and Derek takes the glass, rubs the surface with the pad of his thumb.

Derek’s been trying to use his words more but sometimes he feels more eloquent with actions. He sets the glass on his coffee table and turns to take Stiles’s face in his hands instead, palms rasping against Stiles’s cheeks, and leans forward to press a kiss to Stiles’s mouth.

Stiles lets Derek control the kiss, and Derek takes his time, slanting Stiles’s head for a better angle, licking the seam of Stiles’s lips until they part. Derek feels a shock of pleasure when their tongues curl together, and shifts closer, nudging his knee between Stiles’s legs.

Stiles’s hands slide around from Derek’s back to his sides, skating across the hem of his shirt and then under, warm fingers brushing bare skin. Derek rocks his hips a little, trying to get a little friction on his thickening cock, and makes a noise like a growl in the back of his throat.

He breaks the kiss to pant against Stiles’s cheek, his stubbled jaw rasping against Stiles’s smooth, pale skin. Derek can feel Stiles's shoulder muscles bunching under his hands as Stiles twists his wrist to fit his palm over Derek's erection, rubbing him through the denim of his jeans. Derek rolls his hips, angling for more pressure, but Stiles moves with him, keeping the touch light and teasing.

"Stiles," Dereks says, somewhere between pleading and warning, and feels Stiles grin against his cheek.

"What's the rush," he asks, lips brushing Derek's jaw. He takes Derek's earlobe between his teeth but doesn't bite down, just scrapes them along the skin, making Derek shiver.

Derek slides his hands down to the curve of Stiles's ass and hauls him closer, taking some of Stiles’s weight, and Stiles gasps when his own erection comes in contact with Derek’s thigh.

"Dirty pool," Stiles says, still teasing. His heartbeat is pounding in Derek's ears and Derek opens his mouth against Stiles's neck, licking his way down to Stiles’s collarbones.

“Just trying to get you off that ankle,” he says, and bites down.

Stiles makes one of Derek's favorite noises, and finally presses his hand against Derek harder.

Derek grinds into it, impatient, and bites at Stiles's neck again. 

Stiles retaliates with a sharp nip to Derek's earlobe. “Can we get you out of these jeans?”

“Yes,” Derek says, hands already sliding around Stiles’s waist to go for his fly. Stiles laughs breathlessly and pulls back, and Derek growls again.

“Bedroom,” Stiles says, and he yanks off his shirts on his way down the hall. Derek follows suit, and he’s wearing only his boxer briefs by the time he gets to the edge of the bed.

Stiles is spread out in his back in his boxers, the fabric tented and a wet patch blooming on the blue fabric. Derek kneels on the bed and skims his hands up Stiles’s thighs, feeling goosebumps break out on his skin, and lowers his head to mouth at the damp spot, licking the fabric over the head of Stiles’s cock.

Stiles’s hand comes down to grip Derek’s hair, tugging just enough to get Derek to raise his head.

“Come up here,” Stiles says, his voice soft and his eyes bright. Derek takes one more lick, watching Stiles’s eyelashes flutter, and then sliding up to kiss him.

Stiles gets a grip on Derek’s hips and shifts him around until their cocks are pressed together, and Derek thrusts forward, the teasing friction of the fabric separating their skin making his skin flush hot.

“That feels amazing, you feel amazing,” Stiles says, sliding his hands around to cup Derek’s ass. Derek noses under Stiles’s jaw and licks at his throat. “God, Derek.”

Derek grinds down harder, thrusting faster, feeling the heat coiling up at the base of his spine, feeling Stiles’s muscles tensing under him, and then lifts off, rolling to his side and pulling Stiles around with him. Stiles makes a whimpering protest, shifting on the mattress to get closer again.

Derek drags the waistband of Stiles’s boxers down, then does the same with his own underwear, and gets a hand around both of their cocks, gathering pre-come and using it to help ease the slide of his fist. Stiles’s back arches, his chest flushed and his mouth falling open.

“I’m so close,” he pants, thrusting up erratically into Derek’s hand. Derek swipes a thumb over the head of Stiles’s cock on the upstroke and Stiles makes another of Derek’s favorite noises, a surprised “ah” that Derek cuts off with a kiss.

He licks into Stiles’s mouth and twists the circle of his fingers around their cocks, and Stiles nearly whimpers against Derek’s lips and goes totally still before he’s coming, shaking and spilling over Derek’s hand.

Derek jerks a few more times before his own orgasm hits, and he’s biting down on Stiles’s lower lip, not hard enough to hurt but hard enough for Stiles’s eyes to get wide, his pupils huge and black.

Stiles shimmies out of his boxers and cleans them up, tossing the balled up fabric onto the floor and curling up against Derek’s chest.

“How’s your ankle feel?” Derek asks, and Stiles laughs.

“I have ankles?”

Derek grins against the top of Stiles’s head.

“You may be able to tell when I’m hurt, but I can definitely tell when you’re being smug.”

Derek shrugs, and presses a kiss against Stiles’s hair. Stiles is smoothing a hand down Derek’s side, down over his hip and back up, and Derek can practically hear him fretting in his head.

“So,” Derek says, and has to clear his throat against the sudden roughness in his voice. “I think that house is still there, the one my family stayed in, on the coast. We could maybe see if it’s available sometime?”

Stiles tips his head back and Derek almost has to close his eyes against the look on Stiles’s face.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, and cuddles closer to Derek’s chest. “Let’s do that.”


End file.
